All I Want For Christmas is a New Menorah...

Alex is a wannabe Jew.

Where he developed this affinity and fascination with Judaism is beyond me. Last year he really did indeed want a Menorah for Christmas and which he did, in fact, receive.

Alex and Margo (his quasi-Jewish mother) went to a Hanukkah party last weekend at a REAL Jew's home and played games (spinning the Driedel) and ate Kosher food. He apparently had a good time because he is now cutting the bills off all his baseball caps and using the remaining hat as a yarmulke.

To top it all off, Margo actually WON the Matzoh Ball soup contest at school which pitted the Mormon-Green-Jello-Salad-Queen against the Jews and their historic Matzoh Ball soup recipes that have been handed down from generations of Jewish moms. I told Margo to tell them that the secret ingredient that made her soup so tasty was bacon!

They got even though...the winning prize was a bottle of wine and a coffee mug.

Why I Hate Cats...

Sometime, well after the fall of Adam, God created telestial creatures like cockroachs... and CATS!

My dislike for cats was borne through years of observation and honed into a fine hatred during my missionary days in England.

While I always seemed to have companions that were deathly fearful of dogs, I have always loved dogs and they seem to have a natural affection for me. Even the most vicious dog was reduced to a vigorous tail wagging puppy when I met up with them...maybe it's a "gift of the spirit".

Cats, on the other hand, were a completely different story. It seemed that every house that we got into, that had a cat, would do it's obligatory rub against your leg, jump onto your lap with it's "you-may-pet-me-now-you-large-pink-colored-beast" look, which I would reluctantly indulge the finicky feline. Inevitably, the petting is abrubtly halted by a tear-inducing scratch and bite from the crazy cat as it leaps from your lap. (Note: A dog will look at you, acknowledge with a lick his gratitude for the scritch-scratch, and meander off. A cat, however, feels obligated to punish you for exceeding your time-limit of petting).

Back to the scratching cat. It's timing was impeccable one time as it was my turn to bear my testimony about a particular principle:

"Mr. Brown, I want you to know that I have a testimo....OUCH!!! &*#*$%@&!# CAT!"

The Browns never joined the Church. I blame the cat. I dust my feet of that cat. I'm convinced that Satan probably owns a cat.

Now, I know I will get the cat lovers of the world dander up (pun intended) and I am okay with that. The prevailing rejoinder of that misguided group of cat-lovers is that cats are:

1. Smart. Yeah right. Show me even one that has graduated from kindergarten.

2. Loving. I submit that they don't love you, they allow you to live so that you can feed them and change their litter box.

3. Loyal. Yeah? Just miss one feeding time and they are shacking up with your neighbor faster than you can say Pamela Anderson.

4. Clean. They shed. You vacuum.

5. Easy going. Sure...until you cross them.

As irony would have it, we "own" (or do they own us?) two cats! Yes, dos gatos! This is in direct defiance of my wishes (which by virtue of having two cats proves the utter lack of power and authority I wield in our family) and brought into our home by my animal-loving daughter, Kelsey, who apparently (and suspiciously) did not inherit my cat-hating gene.

I am awaiting the DNA results.

On Spitting, Scratching, and Double-Headers

I don't think I can ever watch the end of the movie, "Field of Dreams", when Kevin Costner asks his father, "Hey, Dad? You want to have a catch?" without breaking down and bawling like a baby.

Britton and I played (and AJ watched) in a Father/Son Baseball tournament in Phoenix, Arizona last week in what (with apologies to Iowa) heaven is suppose to be like. There was unlimited sunflower seed spitting, scratching, butt-slapping, more spitting, and the grabbing and adjusting any part of your body, with unfettered joy.

We played a double-header (two 9-inning games, for the less enlightened. By the way, I wonder where that term ever originated?) on Thursday, and then on Friday we played another double-header. Thirty-six innings of baseball in less than 24 hours!

It was Nirvana!

We won our first game, and lost the remaining 3 games. Saturday we could barely move. I caught all nine innings of the first game (in 98 degree desert heat) and have 3 new bruises in spots that will be difficult to explain to my wife. We are slightly heat exhausted, battered like baby seals, and move "slower than cold molasses through a straw" (Britton's terminology).

Man...that was fun!

Gangstas vs Hoods

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First Dates

Do you remember your very first date?

Through the wonders of the internet and Classmates.com I was contacted by a high school friend, Judy Friddle, whom I was delighted to hear from and catch up with what she has been up to for the last 35 years.

It took me a couple of days to recall, but she was my very first date! I remember it now so vividly because, through no fault of Judy's, it was a disaster!

In high school I was pretty outgoing but, like most teenage boys, lacked a certain confidence level when dealing with girls. I had postponed dating, through sheer terror of rejection, until my senior year in high school when I finally, after dozens of dry runs, called Judy for a date. She apparently accepted, because I cannot recall any of the conversation, and we decided that we would go to her high school play (she attended Pinole High School and I attended DeAnza High School). It seemed like a safe first date.

Having no car of my own, I was forced to ask the old man for the use of his car, a green 1965 Ford Galaxie 500 with an awesome 390 cubic inch engine. His response was typical of any dad... a short and sweet "NO!". I pleaded with him, and after finally confessing that I had a "date", he responded:

"With a girl?"

Apparently pleased that it was indeed a girl, Dad relented and agreed to let me use the Olson family's "second car", an old, grey, 1960 Pontiac Catalina station wagon that my Dad salvaged from some fellow worker who was ready to completely junk it. Dad would tinker on that car for many weekends and finally got it running but I was always suspicious about it's lifespan and it had a annoying quirk of refusing to restart if you were ever listening to the radio.

I was dressed and ready to go about 5 hours early. Finally, after giving myself ample time to drive to Judy's house in Pinole I cruised in my pimped out ride and being a typical teenager...I turned on the radio!

Ater the normal meet the parent pleasantries we headed to the Catalina station wagon and I dutifully opened the door for her and hopped into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and...

Nada! Nothing, ziltch, not a peep from that freakin' pile of dung...it was dead as a doornail!

Bent on showing my prowess as a mechanic I quickly popped the hood and stood with all the masculinity I could muster staring at the jumble of wires, pipes, filters and belts that comprised the beast's innards.

"Must be a dead battery," I said as I leaned around the hood.

The thought then came to my mind that we could "compression start" the vehicle by getting it rolling. As fortune would have it, Judy lived at the top of a street that was straight with a slight downhill slope to the barrier at the end of the street.

"Slide over to the driver's side, put the car in neutral, and I will push you, then you can start the car!" I instructed confidently.

The old Catalina station wagon started her journey down the street with me pushing from behind and began to pick up speed where I was basically holding on to the back of the car. It was at that point that the ignorance of youth, and my inability to inherit anything remotely mechanical from my father, was made manifest by the fact:

YOU CANNOT COMPRESSION START AN AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION!

Now the Catalina station wagon is really rolling with me in a dead sprint behind it! I'm yelling to Judy to hit the brakes which she attempts with her entire 5'2'' frame standing on the brake pedal. The car is not stopping because, of course, with the ignition off, the power brakes are not going to work.

A vision of the Catalina station wagon and my date careening down the street and crashing through the dead-end barrier flashed through my mind when finally, the Catalina station wagon began to slow and stopped just short of the barrier.

Crestfallen from this lame attempt, I knew that my date was toast. Fortunately, Judy showed some compassion and said,

"It's okay, we'll just walk!"

We walked 4 miles to her school with me trying to make small talk and mentally scolding myself for being such an idiot. We got there well after the school play had started and luckily got a ride back to Judy's house from one her friend's mom.

The humiliation was almost unbearable.

Judy invited me inside for ice cream and after a little while I left, walked down to the end of the street got into that stupid, grey, Pontiac Catalina station wagon and turned the key.

It started right up.

I drove home with the radio blasting so loud you couldn't hear me swearing at that old Pontiac Catalina station wagon.

Reunion Psyche

Why do we go to high school reunions?

Simple. We love seeing how old everyone else looks and "catching up" with your classmates.

For guys, it takes about 5-7 minutes to catch up with another guy you haven't seen for 30 years. The conversation goes something like this:

Me: "Bob?"

Bob: "Jeff?"

Me: "You look the same!" (Lie. He looks like he's been run over by a herd of yaks)

Bob: "You too..." (Lie. He thinks I look like I have been run over by a herd of yaks, TWICE!)

Me: "Whatchubeenupto?"

Bob: "Divorced three times, jail once, retired from Chevron and livin' large in Ely, Nevada, you?"

Me: "Ah, married for 27 years, 5 kids, couple of grandkids, still work in real estate, and well, you know..."

Bob: "Yeah, yeah...Hey, you hear Joe passed away?"

Me: "Yeah, yeah, I did... but you know, nude parachute jumping has its risks..."

Bob: "Yeah, yeah...

Me: "Yeah...well...(long pause) How 'bout those Giants this year?"

This ritual is repeated 10 to 15 times with other classmates.

The final portion of the reunion consists of watching the old high school clicks reunite, the aging cheerleaders squealing like they are 16 again, and the former jocks getting drunk.

You finally leave the reunion marveling at how mother nature has hammered your classmates and feel satisfied that you can easily go another 10 or 20 years before you ever see them again.

As you exit, however, you think you overhear someone say, "Wow, HE sure looks old!"

They're Dropping Like Flies...

Where the term "...dropping like flies...", this Posting's Title, originated from is almost as confusing as it's literally meaning. I, for one, have never observed a single fly just keel over in mid-flight, let alone a whole group suddenly meet their maker without the benefit of a can of Raid.

Most of us, however, know the general meaning of the axiom and I use it because a number of friends, ex-teammates, work associates are among the many individuals that have met with an early exit from this mortal life this summer. Other friends have had some close calls with open heart surgery, chemo, and other life-altering ailments.

All of this bad news has put me into a funk.

Part of the psychology of aging is the coming to grips with your own mortality contrasted with your most basic of desires to keep breathing, remain upright and above ground. So now, anytime I experience a hint of heartburn, the slightest numbness anywhere, minor ache, or pain it is sufficient reason to panic fearing that the BIG ONE has come!

Therefore, I have decided that when I do kick it (aka: buy the pinewood condo, kick the oxygen habit, or PC version "become metaphysically challenged"), it will be with humor.

I haven't completely decided yet, but here are a few ideas for what I want my epitaph to read:

I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK...

HEY, AT LEAST I'M FINALLY LOSING SOME WEIGHT!

(In real small letters at the bottom of the head stone) IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU ARE KNEELING ON MY HEAD...

DON'T LOOK NOW BUT I AM STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU!

IT REALLY STINKS IN HERE...

IF YOU HEAR SNORING, DIG ME UP!

DON'T BE SMUG, YOU ARE ONE BIG MAC AWAY FROM BEING HERE TOO!

Ahhhh....Summer!

I have always loved the summer.

Vacations, swimming pools, baseball, the beach, camping, and all the activities. Most of the great memories I have occurred during the summer.

Until now.

Saturday, after spending the better part of the morning and early afternoon in the backyard cleaning and power washing the barbecue grill I was hot and sweaty. The pool looked extremely inviting, and Olivia (age 3), my granddaughter, was encouraging me to join her and Nana in the pool.

I already had my swimsuit on so I thought I would enjoy a refreshing plunge. As Olivia, stood by the edge waiting for me, I removed my shirt.

Olivia stared wide-eyed at my chest and then declared,

"Papa! You have BREASTS!"

She yelled this loud enough, I am quite sure, for the entire neighborhood to hear.

I am hitting the gym today.

Cry Wolf!

My son, Derek, is currently serving as a missionary in Lima, Peru. He left the comforts of home, family and friends to serve for two years among the people of Peru. Elder Olson has a little more than a year left on his mission and has grown a lot spiritually, but...

The phone rang at our house around 11:15 pm and my heart jumped. Typically, a phone call this late at night is not a welcomed event because it usually involves something that is either bad news, inconvenient news, or the guard house saying that my garage door is open (our community has an unnerving fetish about open garage doors, which is ironically interesting since, if I am living in a gated community with a security patrol, should not my garage be safe?)

I answer the phone with a timid, "Hello?"

"Is this Brother Olson?" came the voice of a young man on the other end of the line.

The "brother" part of his question is the obvious giveaway that it is a church member calling, but I am curious, because most Mormons are asleep by 10 pm on a weeknight. (BYU students would be the exception here)


"Yes..." I responded. The line is clear of any static so I am thinking it is one of our local missionaries calling me about something. I am thinking, he is up way too late...


"This is Elder Brandenburg from the Peru Lima North Mission..." he says. My heart starts to pound and it feels like I can't breathe.


"Brother Olson, are you sitting down?"


Now I am in the throes of a full on panic attack as I tell the Elder on the phone to "hold on" while I turn off the din of ESPN spewing out, what is now, totally insignificant scores. I yell to my wife, Margo, to come downstairs.


I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver again, still standing, but leaning on the counter in the full anticipation of the horrible news that awaits my ears.


"Okay, I am here, what..."

Elder Brandenburg interrupts me in mid sentence, "I have bad news..."

Time begins to slow as I interpolate the rest of his sentence and my heart begins to explode in the anticipated and overwhelming grief that comes to any parent who has ever lost a child...


"Elder Olson has..."


Tears are welling in my eyes and I am now mentally resigned to the "what happened" and wondering the "how's"...

"broken..."


Huh?


"his..."


He is alive...this is good...


"camera...and the bad news is that it will cost about $300 for the new one that he really wants!"

There is giggling in the background. I hear a faint, "I love you papa!"


Elder Brandenburg, along with Elder Derek Jay Olson, work in the mission office and were waiting for a group of missionaries to arrive very late (or very early in the morning) from the U.S. and, with the 2 hour time difference, made it around 1:30 am in Peru when they decided to pass some time with a prank call.


Giddy from an apparent lack of sleep, and (I am being extremely lenient here) their judgement impaired by fatigue, and (the old fall back) Elders will be Elders...they decided that it is not against the rules for an elder to call (and play a joke upon) another elder's father...just twisted, and worthy of Extreme Repentance...(yes, I am talking to you too, Brandenburg!)


Sitting on our shelf, at the top of the steps of our home, is a portrait of Elder Derek Jay Olson and beside it is a "Missionary Countdown Clock", indicating that he has 410 days left on his mission.

410 days.

Then, I am gonna kill him myself...

Out at the plate!

Time, someone once said, is God's way of preventing everything from happening at once.

It was a nice base hit to left field, just between the outstretched glove of the shortstop.

Me, being the runner on second base, make a mad dash to third with the full intention of scoring on this play. As I have taught all my high school players to do, I hit the inside part of the base with my right foot and head for home with legs wheeling and arms pumping in the up-down and straight back motion that our speed coaches preach. As home plate draws nearer, my heart is pounding from the 180 foot sprint and from the anticipation of adding an insurance run to our somewhat tenuous 3 run lead.

As I look up one last time to see if a slide is necessary or if I should just "go in standing" I notice the opposing team's catcher firmly camped (I use the word "camped" for obvious reasons that will become apparent shortly) at home plate. With the ball securely in his catcher's glove via a relay throw from that very shortstop who, only moments ago, agonized over his almost miraculous defensive play, he applies the tag as I deftly attempt a hook slide to the right side of home plate.

YOU'RE OUT! Comes the call from the home plate umpire...whose parting comment to me is, "Hey, 32, nice effort..." I walk slowly back to the dugout nursing my newly-skinned knees.

(EDITORS NOTE: Let me inject a "sports information tidbit" here so that the punchline is more relevant: Pro players can usually run to first in 4 seconds or less.)

The play described above took roughly 30 seconds....

The mad dash home was perhaps the slowest in recorded (or even unrecorded) baseball history. The only reason it was even close was that the shortstop was so surprised to see me rounding third that he finished tying his shoe, put his glove back on, and then threw home.

My speed can now be "timed" with a calendar.

We all get old, but for me this is the first time.

When I was young, I never heeded the warnings of my future "allies in age", my elders. The stories of their feats of athleticism during their youth were apocryphal at best and most likely an outright lie. I would look at their aging physical forms and to visualize anything remotely athletic was an impossible task. Their only rejoinder was a simple, "Yeah, one day you'll be my age too!"...

The thought then creeps across your mind like the crawling headlines on the bottom of the screen on CNN...

"Yeah right, you old fart..."

Now, I am relegated by the Master of Time, to only remembering being fast, thin, and athletic. Running a 4.7 second 40 yard dash during my football tryouts at Contra Costa College is the truth-turned-to-lie that I must endure till my tenure here on earth is complete. Diving for balls hit deep in the hole or making a game saving catch in center field are only in the memory banks and no film exists to support the claim. The only evidence that it ever happened at all are the faint scars on my arms and knees.

Yeah, getting old sucks. But to you young guns out there who doubt my stories of glory I have one thing to say...

"Someday you will be my age too!"

And that, my friends in this time continuum, is every old person's revenge (that and Depends)!

Doggone it...

Well, I knew it...the puppy training, discipline, and clean up has fallen upon me as expected...

Pooper scooper technology has improved since Zoey, our families first dog (who was inherited by my business associate, Paul, after Alex was born). So the stinkin' task is not as distasteful as the old days of sliding the "post-production kibble" into a dustpan on a stick.

The latest version of Poopscooping technology is the "Jaws of Death" where you squeeze the handle and the two opposing "jaws" open wide allowing you to surround, and upon releasing the handle, deftly snatch those offending lawn nuggets.

Which brings me to a fundamental social dilemma...Doggy-doo etiquette.

I am a neophyte dog walker. However, I have observed over the years a variety of dog owners and the manner in which they handle their dog's business. There are several types:

Type 1: The Conscientious dogwalker. He/she carries a variety of socially responsible, biodegradable, and earth friendly poop collectors and is quick to pick up his charge's dump at any time and any place. All their dogs are anal retentive.

Type 2: The Clueless dogwalker. He/she rarely leashes their dog. They just take their pet on a "walk" as an excuse to get out of the house and smoke a cigarette. They don't even know their beloved pooch just poached on your newly sodded lawn. If they do, they just shrug their shoulders and give you a look that says, "You should be glad my Bull Mastiff didn't tear your leg off...oh, and have a nice day!"

Type 3: The Charlatan dogwalker. He/she walks with the basic of dog doo disposal tools, the white plastic grocery bag clearly in sight of anyone who should observe said dogwalker. Secure in the knowledge that should their mutt "manure-mine" the property of a neighbor, if it is unobserved by anyone, stays put, smoldering on the grass, subscribing to the philosophy of, "If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it really make a sound?". If, however, they are within visual proximity of anyone, they become a concerned and responsible dog owner and grab up the goodies using their remedial retrieval system with a Pharisaic smugness that shouts out..."Look at the righteous dog owner!".

What category do I fall into? Let's just say that the lack of light that the early morning provides is an added benefit when I walk the puppy with my plastic Safeway bag...

Lost your puppy? Call the Doggone department.

Reply All...

There are a number of things in life that provide immediate humiliation.

A noisy, uncontrolled fart in a quiet, yet crowded, elevator.

Shutting your locked car door, only to notice at the very last moment, that your keys are still snuggly in the ignition.

Accidently using the "Reply All" in a very personal, private e-mail.

My wife, Margo, is the principal of an elementary school. During the spring break she received an e-mail from a School District colleague requesting that she contact a student's mother regarding some special education issues.

Now, Margo is probably the kindest, sweetest person on the face of the earth. She is always polite and professional in all her dealings with both parents and staff. However, on this particular e-mail she decided to take a candid and harsh approach in detailing her experiences with this particular mother. She recounted numerous meetings with the mother that led her to believe that not only the child but the mother herself was "special ed". It was a scathing indictment of an overly aggressive and difficult mother.

When Margo was about to e-mail her reply to the District colleague and a District Administrator she decided to use, Reply All. Unfortunately, the originator of the email from the district had Carbon Copied or "CC"'d the mother who was the subject of the email.

So, she too, got Margo's e-mail reply.

Technology's version of Instant Karma...

The offended mother fired off her own e-mail to Margo describing how upset she was about the e-mail. Margo offered a sincere and humble apology.

Suggestion to all ISP's who have e-mail: Please have an "are you sure you want to send this e-mail to All?" (similar to when you are deleting a file). Or perhaps more importantly the disclaimer: "Are you sure this e-mail isn't going to someone you don't want it to go to, isn't going to start a world war, or isn't going to PerezHilton.com?"

Unlike a crowded elevator, it is tough to blame someone else...

Insults, insults...

You would think that having reached a certain age you would command enough respect from those significantly younger.

Most recent insults are in reverse chronological order but not by severity.

During a recent trip to my doctor, I was referred to a cardiologist to have a stress test and EKG done. After completing the stress test the cardiologist came in and went over the results with me. He asked me some questions aimed at identifying any obvious symptoms like, do you have pain here, here, or HERE. After responding negatively to all the standard doctor questions, he kind of rolled his eyes and dismissed me with, "Well, Mr. Olson, there is really nothing we can see that is wrong with your heart..." (Except for the fact that my dad died of a heart attack at the same age, you moron...) and "come back if you have any symptoms I described..." (wouldn't I be dead?) Then as a final aside he said, "Pick up that chair..." (ahhh, another test to check out my strength, dexterity...) I complied and lifted the chair easily and anxiously awaited the results of this new, yet simple, test. "You are carrying around that chair all day, every day. Lose the chair..." with that, he spun and left the exam room. Ouch. Just tell me I'm fat. I don't need an object lesson.

Numero Dos. Just before the new year I decided it was time for my semi-annual haircut. I just forget to go to the barber until my hair is way out of control. I walked into Super Cuts, which is like the Kmart of hair salons. Usually I get a non-english speaking woman to cut my hair but on this occasion I got some old guy whose first comment to me was..."you look horrible with long hair..." (hence the reason I am here Einstein...) He goes on, "you need to have a shorter hair cut like Harrison Ford..." (hey, I see your point, we are like twins...) Now, I have always been used to scissor cuts, he starts with scissors then moves on to an object I only have seen done to others, an electric razor that has a "number" associated with the blade...I have no idea what he is talking about when he says "number 4" but I soon, unfortunately find out. This is no haircut, this is a massacre. By the time I can object, my head is virtually shaved. I cannot pinch my hair. Proudly, he states "This is how you should wear your hair and promise me you will never let it grow out long again...long hair just doesn't work on you." Okay, so now I am fat and BALD! Thank you very much. Adding insult to injury I actually tipped him.

Last but not least. I stopped on my way home at a place that had my favorite teriyaki bowls to go. The young girl behind the counter took my order, and I decided to order a second bowl for my mom whom I had just talked to on the cell phone and I told her I would bring her by some dinner. So as I ordered I casually added (thinking that it would sound thoughtful) "Let me get a second bowl for my mom too..." To which she responded with a look of disdain and disbelief, "You still live with your mother???"

Okay, so I am a middle aged fat, bald guy who lives with his mother...can it get any worse?

Tahoe Tales

Well, we made the trek up to Tahoe (Incline Village) and are staying courtesy of Uncle Howard's "cabin", I say cabin in a very liberal sense of the word because it is more like a huge home. Three thousand plus square feet and a cost of $2 million...nice digs for a second home.

Anyway, we went skiing today at Diamond Peak ski resort and here is the view. Isn't it a beautiful world?

Baseball and Life

Well, our first three games of the Liberty Freshmen High School Baseball season (where I am assistant coach) have resulted in resounding defeats each of which have been by 2 touchdowns (14 runs) or more. We suck. Spanked like a red-headed step-child.

It is particularly frustrating when you have practiced with the kids and gone over in detail all the necessary information for them to be successful. Where to throw the ball for cut-offs, where to be defensively on a sacrafice bunt, how to read the coaches signs as to when to steal and hit-and-run, etc. Then game time comes and they have a brain freeze and forget everything they have been taught. Then you look in the stands and see all the parents talking to each other and you are guessing that they are wondering just what in the world are you teaching these kids!

But, freshmen baseball is like life...in a twisted sense of the imagination. We get all the info we need to be successful from church and the scriptures yet when the game of life says, "play ball" we succumb to woeful errors of temptation and missing the "signs" that have been given to us at such a great price. No wonder the "head coach" will get a little disappointed with his teams every once in awhile.

I just hope I don't get cut.

A.J. and Olivia crossing the Brooklyn Bridge-December 2006

Good morning, good afternoon, and good night!

After perusing the blog of my daughter Erin and her husband Phil I got in the mood to ramble a little too.

Peruse, now there is an interesting word. If you ask the average individual, (except Phil who will know this...), they would define the word "peruse" as the act of scanning, skimming over, or quickly reading something. In actuality, it means to "study carefully" which would be the exact opposite of the common interpretation of this word.

Some say that a word's definition is "defined" by it's generally accepted usage and understanding. Perhaps. However, if society as a whole started to call the sky above us "cheese" and continued to do so for a long period of time, maybe centuries, we may assume that our posterity could possibly be staring off into the cheese and dream of flying.

Upon further observation, I have noticed the many definitions have been changed. Things that we had previously defined as evil, wrong or corrupt are now defined as good, right, and praiseworthy.

Heaven forbid if we should disagree with the current definitions and hold to the original version lest a demand for a well-worded formal apology or worse yet a recommendation for therapy be made of us!

Conversely, those things we valued and defined as good, uplifting, and righteous are now under the anti-Webster definition of politically incorrect, wacko, or "red-state".

Think I will take some extra time today to peruse the beautiful cheese.